


In Time

by subito



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: 1997 UK General Election, 2015 UK General Election, M/M, Memories, Party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-10 03:53:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5570020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subito/pseuds/subito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were times when Andy was looking forward to elections, times he sometimes wants back. They are the times of his youth, when his enthusiasm for politics was almost equal to his enthusiasm for football, when belief came easy and gave him the confidence to think he could do anything – and succeed. For his trinity of politics and football and love, for each of those things Andy can think back to defining moments, moments that started a fire. Like Hillsborough. Or the 1997 election. For the most part, those moments don’t overlap. But the 1997 election was a game changer in more ways than the one history will remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kitty_18](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitty_18/gifts).



> Written for the Lolitics Secret Santa Exchange 2014.

Andy wakes to a mostly dark room. The only illumination is provided by the flickering kaleidoscope colours of the television screen which immediately hurt his eyes. He squints, trying to make out the programme, trying to guess what time it is. The football has long finished, even the interviews and other match reports have been replaced by something he doesn’t recognise.

There must have been a time when he had been as tired as in these last few months but nothing in particular comes to mind. Maybe he is actually getting old, maybe it’s his willingness to uninhibitedly throw himself into anything NHS related that is taking its toll, maybe it’s the strain of the looming election; quite possibly it’s all of those things together and then some.

The upcoming election is a fantastical big beast in his mind, mysterious and unpredictable but demanding all your faith at the same time. Its kraken-arms slither smoothly around your neck, holding it in place but also increasing the pressure every day. It seeps into every conversation, ink-like stains that leave everything tinged with that dark and bitter quality that cannot be removed. It is wingless unless you give it wings, toothless unless you give it teeth, weak unless you pour all your strength into it. The secret is not to get eaten alive, to not let it drag you down, drown, brown algae and sand blocking your throat.

There were times when Andy was looking forward to elections, times he sometimes wants back. They are the times of his youth, when his enthusiasm for politics was almost equal to his enthusiasm for football, when belief came easy and gave him the confidence to think he could do anything – and succeed. For his trinity of politics and football and love, for each of those things Andy can think back to defining moments, moments that started a fire. Like Hillsborough. Or the 1997 election. For the most part, those moments don’t overlap. But the 1997 election was a game changer in more ways than the one history will remember.

When Andy thinks about 1997 and the election, all he remembers is being drunk on excitement and beer. He had only been a researcher then and no one at the Royal Festival Hall had paid too much attention to him. There were far more important people about, political heavyweights of their time and even people known outside the political circle, people whose faces were recognised by the man on the street.

Andy remembers people hugging him and hugging people back without even knowing their names. He remembers the sticky air and spilled drinks all over the floor, Dionysian, ecstatic faces. It was a magic night, woven from the golden strings of spinning angels, tailored to their new messiah, halo still in place. Shadows were ignored that night, the light turned up just enough to justify the label, and everyone was dancing to the keys and drums of lesser gods. 

Because what he truly remembers about that night, vividly and impossibly articulative to this day, is the keyboard player from the aptly named band D:Ream. Andy had watched him on stage and marvelled at the irrepressible energy radiating from the young man with the ridiculously tight trousers and even more ridiculous hair. He had felt himself smile a smile that had been buried for a few years, a smile that held memories of metaphorical butterflies and the stirring of a wonderfully warm southern storm.

When Andy had seen him later, leaning against a door frame in that rock star kind of way, talking to people with an easy smile, he had followed the luscious flow of dark hair down a long neck and unto shoulders half-exposed. Tucked into the musician’s glistening trousers was a sleeveless shirt with a non-descript pattern, setting off the pale arms, lean and muscular.

The effect from shadows on light curves over angular bones was best observed from afar, safely drinking in the overall presence and grace of movements. Then, suddenly, Andy was ripped out of his calm contemplation, finding himself pushed forward and dragged along by the sleeve. With shock he realised he was edging along the event horizon, spiralling towards a point of no return, head spinning all the same, ever closer and closer towards the man who was already greeting Andy’s friend.

The introduction to Brian is still a blur in Andy’s mind. All but the grin on his friend’s face and the appreciative eyes of Brian he recalls, though even now he has difficulty believing the latter. Compliments about his looks, the whispered ones as well as those unspoken, have always made him uneasy, even more so when they came from someone he could only think of in terms like ‘stunning’.

Brian’s mouth was moving, telling stories or jokes to his friend, and all Andy remembers are the deep tones that cut through the music and the alcohol and went straight to that funny place under his navel.

Brian’s hand wiped a strand of hair from his face and Andy’s eyes followed that hand in a daze. A thought about his own short hair, cut almost as short as his five o’clock shadow, had lead to Andy wondering what it might be like to kiss Brian and feel those hands on his head, guiding him down rabbit holes he might never escape. The image that had stuck was that of long dark hairs caught in short dark stubble, a black and tangled mess.

Andy had let out a laugh that had caught the attention of the other two men and Brian had slung an arm around Andy’s shoulder while they had listened to their friend go on and on about Arsenal and Wenger. The finer points of Everton and Oldham had been brought up in return but what had mattered more to Andy than his Blues in that moment had been the heat from Brian’s body against his side as something was shouted into his ear, warm breath tickling his neck.

The things that should be most memorable somehow never etch themselves into memories as distinctly as could be expected. Like the energy emitted by powerful emotions melts the waxen surface, obscuring lines and flattening welts, rendering it impossible to leave a crisp impression and causing stored thoughts to blur with every attempt to recall them.

All that is left of one of the most memorable nights of Andy’s life is a feeling of achievement and beginning, professionally and personally.

There is arousal that floods his senses and causes a rush of adrenaline that he knows with certainty to be just a weak relict of the one he had felt when he had been pressed against a wall near a dimly lit corner, hands full of fabric and skin that were excitedly not his own.

There is the warmth and fondness of kissing someone just for the purpose of kissing and exploring and revelling in each other’s touch, without the need to get off, because you both think the moment will last forever and there is enough time later.

There is the memory of a surprisingly reassuring squeeze of hands when they both had broken the kiss to catch their breath and lean on each other.

There is Tony’s voice saying “A new dawn has broken, has it not,” and Andy remembers how all he could do was to grin stupidly while looking at the sun that was Brian’s face. 

It has been a long time since he had thought - allowed himself to think - about that night. They hadn’t exchanged any contact details and with every day that the deep red mark on his chest had further faded into a barely there yellow, Andy had forced himself back into a routine of work and football and all his new post-election responsibilities.

A chance meeting many years later had revealed how it had been similar for Brian. The election night had been his last gig with the band and afterwards he had buried himself in his science projects. They had chatted easily, without the dreaded awkwardness Andy’s mind had insisted upon the few times he had dared to dream about what it might be like to reconnect with the man who was never truly far from his mind – at least in those twilight hours, when a sharp intake of breath and the rustling fabric of sheets seems louder than a stadium crowd.

Back home that day, heart still pounding and feeling breathless, Andy had found a small piece of paper covered in numbers in his suit pocket. He hadn’t known how Brian had managed it but the thought of those dextrous fingers had occupied Andy all night. In the morning he had felt the sort of guilt that comes with thinking about someone other than the person you are currently involved with, the sort of guilt that comes with wanting something you think you don’t deserve.

He hadn’t called the number that week and not that month either. He had called a year later, confessing to a delighted Brian how much he had enjoyed the documentary that had been on the night before. That time, Brian had dropped a hint he was seeing someone but they had managed to keep in loose contact nevertheless.

They had comfortable chats about football and music mostly, occasionally dipping into politics when Brian started a rant about the science budget or straying into Brian’s territory when Andy picked up on an idea that had been discussed on The Infinite Monkey Cage. Occasionally, though, there were suggestive subtleties in Brian’s giggle and teasing, testing undertones in Andy’s voice that none of them ever acted on.

The last call had been about eight months ago, Andy realises. He gets out his mobile and checks the time properly. It’s not as late as he thought it would be. It’s time for things to get better. It’s not yet happening for the NHS maybe but tonight he has to do something for himself for once. He looks through his contacts, stops with suddenly shaky fingers, swallows, and hits dial.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you are wondering if any of this has some truth to it:  
> \- Brian really did play at that party. It was his [last gig](http://www.theguardian.com/science/2008/sep/14/cern.particlephysics) with the band.  
> 
> 
> \- There is also an anecdote he tells somewhere ([here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AOTA32QJ3HQ) at 0:55 to be precise) about how the last time he was on stage he was doing lab work in Manchester and just barely managed to get off the lab coat before stepping on stage. (Not sure if it was the same occasion though because of the Manchester/London thing.)  
>   
> and I give you [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rTD9jusxg-A) for added fun.


End file.
